


burn more brilliant than the sun

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5611882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just before dawn, he’d made her feel such intense, overwhelming pleasure she thought she might never recover. And now, mere hours later, all she wants to do is call him back to bed and kiss every bit of chest exposed by that robe, and then every bit of everything concealed by it. <i>Mine</i>, she would think with each kiss. <i>All of this, all of you, mine, forever, mine.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	burn more brilliant than the sun

_Mine._

That’s all Sansa can think, the only word she still seems to know. She’s seen Jon many ways; fitted out with armor atop a great destrier, training in the yard with padded breastplates, treating with neighboring Houses in a fine-fitting doublet that Sansa herself had overseen the tailoring of.

Completely bare as he claims her body, drops of his sweat falling on her skin to mix with her own.

But she’s never seen him in this state of…half-dress before, and it’s making her squirm beneath the furs with how much she wants to touch him. And it’s making her head spin to know that she _can_.

His breeches are none she hasn’t seen before. She’s seen them too often, actually; they’re probably his oldest pair, threadbare and unraveling at the seams, at most a moon’s turn away from the scrap basket. They sit low on his hips as he stands near the door, frowning thoughtfully at the parchment someone had just delivered to him, saying it had come at dawn. He’d donned a long robe before opening the door, belting it loosely as he took the letter. She’s seen that robe in his bedchamber many times but has never seen him wear it before. It seems a crime, now, to have wasted so many days not having this image of Jon to daydream upon, idly picturing the pale, tawny stretch of skin from collarbone to hip that’s revealed by the open lapels, skin that’s scattered with flat, swirling hair. Sansa knows from experience that hair feels pleasantly coarse to the touch, and even more pleasantly coarse when it’s touching her. The sides of the robe nearly lap at his abdomen, held there by the untidy knot of the belt, but no matter how the robe obscures it, she knows that the hair grows heavier and somehow softer there, arrowing down beneath the cloth of his breeches.

He shifts and the robe gaps at his chest, showing a flat, brown nipple, one she knows would pebble against her tongue if she licked it as she’s dying to. Just before dawn, he’d made her feel such intense, overwhelming pleasure she thought she might never recover. And now, mere hours later, all she wants to do is call him back to bed and kiss every bit of chest exposed by that robe, and then every bit of everything concealed by it. _Mine_ , she would think with each kiss. _All of this, all of you, mine, forever, mine._

She’s so lost in her fantasies that his voice startles her when he speaks.

“You look far away, love.”

Sansa smiles and shakes her head. “Oh no, I’m right here in bed. It’s you that’s far away. Much too far.”

Jon smiles back at her, that funny, half-upside-down smile of his that makes her want to kiss the down-turned side every time. His hands move to the robe’s belt as he walks towards the bed.

“Leave it,” Sansa says. Jon pauses and looks at her speculatively. Then his grin turns wicked and he drops his hands, using them to crawl onto the mattress and brace himself over her body where she lies beneath the furs. His kiss is searing, stoking a barely banked fire in her body even though he doesn’t touch her anywhere else.

“Shall you unwrap me like a present then?” he asks, nipping at her lower lip, staying braced on his arms even as she wraps her own around his neck and pulls herself up towards him, cool air swirling under the furs as they lift with her.

“I shall do everything. _Everything_. Provided you’ve no objection, of course.”

Jon laughs, his breath feathering over her lips to make her shiver. “Surely you don’t think you married a fool, my lady.”

“Good,” Sansa says. His neck is salty and warm under her tongue, his pulse like a blacksmith’s hammer. She kicks one leg free of the furs to hitch it up over his hip. The furs make it more frustrating than effective, but his sharp intake of breath still makes it more than worthwhile. Their marriage is old enough for comfort, but young enough yet for surprise. “And once I’ve done everything I can imagine to you, perhaps I’ll wear the robe and let _you_ unwrap _me_.” Jon’s groan is heartfelt and ragged and entirely gratifying.

“That’s awfully conflicting,” Jon rasps. “Should I hope your imagination is limited or endless?”

Sansa laughs in delight, kissing him with a resounding smack, a kiss that’s more about affection than desire. “Don’t worry, my husband,” she says. “We have all the time in the world.”


End file.
